Birds of A Feather
by lareepqg
Summary: Jane doesn't feel well. She's not sick, exactly, but there is something wrong and it is interfering with her duties. Certainly a cold would be preferable to whatever THIS is. Day 4 of Janther Week - Foofaraw: a great fuss over something that is trivial.
1. Chapter 1

The first time it happens, she thinks it is funny.

Their garrison is sent to a small town on the coast - a band of ruffians has been attacking the merchants there - waiting for the ships to come in and the goods to start their way inland before swooping in and claiming them as their own. No one had been killed yet, but the king and her father suspect the items are being hoarded for the black market, and it is only a matter of time before a desperate merchant or a hired caravan guard takes matters into their own hands.

They spend the evening talking to the locals, getting a lay of the land, planning a sweep of the surrounding hills and cliffside caves. A thorough scouring of the countryside should reveal the outlaws' encampment; but their ultimate goal is not just to capture the men, but reclaim the ever-growing cache of stolen goods.

They are half-way through coordinating a sweep of the area when the outlaws attack. Disorganized and rightly afraid for their lives, the band attacks the town outright - not even waiting for the knights to fall asleep before rushing in, swords high, torches blazing.

The garrison makes short work of the men, but not before the outlaws set fire to the inn and stables; the fire spreads quickly to the surrounding buildings.

Jane and her compatriots, supported by the people they'd been sent to protect, spend the rest of the night hauling buckets, creating firebreaks, and pulling down walls to prevent the fire from spreading to the town proper.

The sun is just starting to make its way over the horizon when the last of the fires is finally extinguished. Jane is searching out their captain to deliver her report when Gunther appears from nowhere - as is his _irritating_ habit - captures her wrist.

He frowns at the good-sized burn that is developing there; a bit of thatching had fallen to burn a hole in her sleeve before she'd been able to douse it properly. It's nothing serious, but it does hurt - and it is large and ugly against the pale, freckled skin of her arm. He sends her off to their medic, promising to make report while she gets patched up.

She's still waiting for the old knight's attentions - there are plenty of townsfolk with cuts and burns more serious than her own - when she spots Gunther weaving through the milling crowds back towards where he left her.

He's scowling at nothing and everything, ducking past the people who have stopped to gawk at the blackened inn, when he is stopped by two young ladies.

If she remembers correctly, they are the innkeeper's daughters, though it is hard to tell with their hair unbound and their general state of ...undress. It's not their fault of course, they hadn't _asked_ to be woken up in the middle of the night so they could watch their house and livelihood burn down. Far be it for Jane to judge - it is not as if _she_ is dressed in anything _remotely_ proper for a lady of her standing.

Still, neither young woman is wearing more than a night rail with a shawl thrown about their shoulders, and Jane actually _gasps_ when one wraps her arms around Gunther's waist in a hug and the other places - not one, but _both_ \- hands on his chest, rises up on her toes, and presses a kiss to the scruff on his jaw.

The action startles him, and his frown deepens before he remembers himself and his manners. His scowl is replaced by his most handsome and devastating smile - the one he saves for the wives of his father's business partners - and shakes the girls off with a courtly bow and a gentle acknowledgement of their thanks.

He turns around and all but _runs_ from the girls - Jane has known him long enough to tell the difference between a decisive step and an escape - leaving the two young women cooing like doves and fanning themselves between smitten giggles.

When he spots her, her arm still unbandaged, his frown reappears, only to be replaced by a look of confusion at her laughter. He asks her what is so bloody _funny_ \- a few short hours ago they'd been in battle and even more recently fighting fires - but she has no desire to explain herself.

As handsome as he is, this is _surely_ not the first time such a thing has occurred.

She waves off his question, which of course annoys him further, and his sharp retort sends her into another unladylike round of snorting mirth.

* * *

The next time it happens, it is such a slight - such a miniscule, _fleeting_ moment in time - she almost misses it.

It isn't anything significant, certainly nothing so dramatic as a battle against evil men, a devastating fire, and damsels in distress, and she nearly ignores it completely.

Because it _is_ nothing, and she isn't sure why she remembers the incident at all.

It's their day to patrol the town, an easy enough duty even if the end result is aching feet and dusted boots. It's less about keeping the peace and more about reassuring the populace, so loitering and lingering are not only allowed, but fully encouraged.

They stop to chat with the man who provides the castle with its tack. He's small and bent, and probably half-mad with the fumes from his work - but he's also funny, quick to flirt, knowledgeable, and happy to greet them.

Gunther wants a new bridle for his stallion, claiming Black's current dressage is not _nearly_ ornate enough for a horse of his looks and breeding.

Jane rolls her eyes at this - Black is spoiled _rotten_ \- and she thinks being handsome and well-bred just aren't quite enough to make up for his surly temperament and tendency to bite. He's a good warhorse, smart and easy enough to train, but he nips at everyone except for herself and Gunther.

Still, she's fond of the ornery animal - maybe finds Gunther's own fondness the _slightest_ bit endearing - and is happy to indulge his rider.

They begin their rounds again, turning down one street then another, when suddenly a passing girl, her basket all but overflowing with the day's flowers for the market, slips in a bit of muck and goes sprawling -

Or at least _would_ have, if Gunther's reflexes aren't so quick. He catches her under one arm and hauls her towards him, using his greater height and mass to arrest her fall and keep her from flying into the mud.

The poor girl ends up crushed against his chest, looking small and startled. Jane thinks she resembles a frightened grouse who knows neither fight nor flight and has instead chosen to freeze.

Gunther steadies the girl before releasing her. He sees her discomfort even if he doesn't understand it, and gives her a reassuring smile before asking if she is alright.

The girl doesn't respond - stays silent and _strange -_ and stares at him with big, stupid eyes before finally giving him the smallest of nods.

Certainly she'd fared better than her wares. The flowers and the basket they'd been in had gone flying through air, scattering themselves about the road and Jane's personage.

Gunther laughs to see her so covered, and after making sure Jane is in no danger of sneezing herself silly, goes about putting the basket to rights. He gathers up the flowers setting them neatly in her basket before handing them back to the girl - Jane is again reminded of frightened fowl - and presses coin into her palm in exchange for a flower with a broken stem.

The girl recovers her wits enough to say no, to return the money for his gallant actions - but Gunther just shakes his head and claims their collision was his fault anyway. He bids her a good day and turns around, never noticing the pink in her cheeks or the way her chest _heaves_ when she finally, _finally_ takes a real breath.

Jane makes it maybe twenty steps before Gunther calls out to her, halting her progress. She turns around, anxious, impatient to be on her way; it's nearly lunchtime and they need to patrol three more streets before they can justify such a break. She spins, ready to tease him for his dallying, but his attention is not on her.

He's taken out his knife and trimmed the broken stem of the flower. She steps up - fully intending to ask just _what_ he is wasting her time on now - when he sticks the damn thing into the crown of her braid.

"What," she asks, "are you doing, bog weevil? Do you need to dress me up like you do your horse?"

He smirks before he replies, "Hardly. Though I dare say my stallion is less likely to nip at my fingers." Gunther laughs at her pout and takes her elbow to point her back in the correct direction. "I just realized how much I enjoy seeing you with all that greenery and foliage in your hair."

Jane stands there a moment, fuming, and notices the flower girl is still rooted in place, staring wistfully - and perhaps a little lustfully - at Gunther's retreating form.

She's annoyed with his teasing - he spent _coin_ to continue his joke - and her stomach hurts a little, but she brushes it off as hunger pains and continues with their patrol.

* * *

 _A/N: Poor Jane has another three chapters before she figures things out. I'll post new chapters weekly._

 _Drop me fav, follow, or review if you feel so inclined, they make my day!_


	2. Chapter 2

There are a few more instances, little nothings, small piles of happenstances which mean absolutely _zero_ by themselves - but when they are lined up, sorted out, and examined - show a pattern which is worrisome at best, frightening and deeply disturbing at worst.

There's the girl at the apple cart who always saves the roundest, _plumpest_ apples for him. She even uses the word "plump" when she entices Gunther over to her cart, shining the apple to a high sheen with the edge of her apron.

Apples are not _plump._ Babies might be plump, an eggplant might be plump, or even a fatty turkey could be described as plump - but surely not an _apple._

But it doesn't stop there.

The girl - Jane suspects she might be edging towards _woman_ based on her dulling hair and tanned cheeks - also uses words like "moist" and "tart" and "creamy" when hawking her wares.

Since when are apples _creamy?_ And who would want to eat one _anyway_?

It's just… gross.

Of course Gunther is _completely_ oblivious to her attempted charms, and Jane wonders how the girl would feel to know Gunther doesn't even _like_ apples. He rarely eats them; most of the time, they end up in his pockets, to be forgotten about or fed to Black.

She could ignore it if it happened once or twice, but they pass by the girl's cart three, maybe four times weekly. Each time there's an apple and a thinly-veiled promise of something ... _more_... and after a while Jane finds the mere _thought_ of apples sends her gut into a bout of soured indigestion.

* * *

Then there's her cousin.

Newly widowed though she's only a few years older than Jane herself. She comes to the castle to pay her respects to the king and settle her late husband's affairs and - Jane does not believe she is being unfair when she thinks this - to find herself a _new_ husband.

Childless, she is still slim and pretty, and by all accounts her marriage was an easy one; her husband was old at the beginning of their short union, infirm by the end. But no children means no endowment - except for the return her paltry dowry - and she stinks of coming destitution just as much as Gunther smells of his eventual inheritance.

Jane has a hard time reconciling the woman her cousin has become with the girl from her past. They were never close - they were far apart enough in age to prevent them from being playmates - and Jane's interests have never been in sync with those of other girls. She remembers her cousin as awkward, an ugly duckling with dun brown hair and crooked smile - a girl whose mother schemed and plotted and _despaired_ over finding a suitable match while Jane's own mother sat silent, tight-lipped in sisterly support.

 _This_ woman is _nothing_ like the girl she remembers. She is tall and proud, and has a laugh that tinkles like bells. She gives sultry looks under heavy lids and her once crooked smile is now close-mouthed, pouty, and _knowing_. Her cousin can sing, and dance, and has never worn anything so rough as a boot on her slippered feet - but for some reason she attends nearly every one of Jane's practices, sparring sessions, and training exercises.

She _claims_ it is because she is proud of her younger relation and wishes to show her support, but Jane knows better.

Not once do her eyes fix on Jane herself.

No.

Her cousin, in all her soft, swan-like feminine glory, only has eyes for Gunther - and the weight of her side-long, assessing gaze makes Jane ill.

For his part, Gunther never seems to be bothered or lets himself become distracted by her cousin's attentions. He maintains focus during their sparring sessions, chides Jane for her poor attention during practice, teases her for terrible aim with the bow. To her cousin he is polite and courteous, and treats the woman as though she is his cousin as well. Like family.

But her cousin is _not_ his family - and Jane _knows_ it -

\- and the smiles, the winks, the touches, the breathy little laughs at his _terrible_ jokes - they make Jane angry and afraid and confused and anxious and she is not sure why.

Jane is glad - breathes easy for the first time in _weeks_ \- when her cousin snags herself a second noble spouse and no longer lingers in the yard.

* * *

And then there is the merchant's daughter.

Not Gunther's sister, obviously; like herself he is an only child - a state of affairs for which Jane regularly gives _fervent_ thanks. Based on the ridiculous behaviors of the women they encounter almost _daily,_ she is not at all sure that she, _or_ the rest of the kingdom, could handle there being _two_ \- or heaven forbid - _three_ young Breeches.

The very idea gives her the shivers.

No doubt such a confluence would be like the very planets and stars aligning, a signal of the end of the world. The ground itself would quake in horror beneath the feet of multiple Breech boys, who would be sure to leave an irritating, arrogant swath of destruction in their wake.

Sighing, broken hearts and moony, weeping eyes all over the kingdom, and perhaps beyond.

No, the _merchant's daughter_ , is far, _far_ more dangerous.

The offspring of a foreign trader, she of the same age as Jane, and every thing she is not. The way of the world is different where she comes from; she has brothers but _she_ is her father's heir, and is travelling with him to ensure she is prepared to take over his business.

She is taller than Jane, but not by much, her hair is long and black and worn free from restraint. It falls almost to her waist and never, ever tangles. It frames the dark, flawless skin of her gently rounded face like a cascade of liquid night. It's beautiful, contrasting perfectly with the silks she wears - brightly colored fabrics which hang loosely, modestly, but still allow for range of movement. Jane has to resist touching them, and is astounded to discover - she's not actually _staring_ at the poor girl, but how could she miss it? - that her dress is actually _split_ , and the merchant's daughter is parading around in _pants._

The differences do not stop there, and they are _so_ dissimilar Jane cannot help but compare herself. Where Jane is thin and wiry, the merchant's daughter is soft and muscular and _strong._ Unlike Jane she has no need to rely on swiftness alone, though she is fast when speed is needed. She's good with a sword because in her land _everyone_ is responsible for protecting their holdings, not just the men.

The merchant's daughter is also well-trained with a bow and dagger, and is just as acrobatic as Jester; though this is a secret she tells only to Jane. Tumbling and contortions are considered a _woman's_ skill - a means to balance the scales against stronger muscles and longer reach - and not for men to know.

It is petty - Jane is by no means proud of it - but she resolves to ask Jester to teach her his acrobatics.

And the merchant's daughter is kind _._

Oh, dear lord, she is _kind._

So much so Jane feels inadequate, small, and stunted.

The merchant's daughter is quick to smile and pay compliment, to say thanks or give charity, to laugh freely or make clever jokes that are never mean. She joins them on their days in town, takes Jane's arm as though they are sisters, and asks Jane to explain things she does not understand.

She charms Dragon _immediately_ \- paints his and Jane's toes dark with intricate designs - but declines his offer to take her flying. They spend an entire day pouring over Jane's book of dragon runes, marvelling at all Jane has discovered, and promises to keep a sharp eye out for similar writings.

She even insists Jane teach her how to use a broadsword.

Her own weapon is curved and wicked-looking - the shape of its name hisses with the same subtle threat of danger as when it is drawn - but she finds the difference in their fighting styles fascinating. She declares she wants to learn _everything,_ and sets about doing just that. They spar daily with sticks and staves, swords and daggers - and she laughs with good humor at her own clumsy footwork.

She is an excellent teacher and gracious student and - _God help her_ \- Jane _likes_ the merchant's daughter and considers her a _friend._

That is not the end of it - because _of course_ it is not - she is intelligent and curious, and she alights on new ideas and gathers them as though they are bits of colored string for her nest.

The girl is educated and thanks to her travels, speaks _more_ languages than Gunther himself. It makes Jane uneasy to hear them chattering excitedly away in some strange dialect - but Gunther seems happy for the opportunity to practice. Jane loses count how many times he looks up from their conversations to practically _beam_ at her as if to say, "Jane, isn't it wonderful to have found someone who is just like _me?_ "

It is _not._

Or maybe it is.

Jane doesn't know, but if she is to lose to someone - though Jane has no idea why she feels her friend is an _opponent_ of some sort - it would be the merchant's daughter, because she is beautiful and good-natured, intelligent and strong, and Jane loves her in the same honest way she loves Pepper.

When the merchant's daughter leaves, off again to places distant and unknown, she pulls Gunther aside. She gives him an elaborately carved box that opens to reveal a game board Gunther is familiar with; painted triangles and small pieces of white and black. He is _delighted_ at her thoughtfulness and doesn't resist when she tugs him down to whisper something in his ear.

Jane cannot hear what she says, but it makes him choke and blush, right down to his roots. She steps back, smiling, and Gunther gives Jane a guilty look before fixing his stare at his feet in embarrassed confusion.

That feeling starts to settle in her stomach, her ever-present anxiety ratchets up another notch, but she pushes it aside while they exchange their own goodbyes. Jane gives her a broadsword, stamped with dragon runes. The girl sobs at such a beautifully practical gift, and promises to practice every day.

To Jane she gives a set of silks like her own. "Green and blue to accentuate your marvelously exotic, wondrous hair," she says, presenting them with a kiss and a wish for much happiness.

Jane can never wear them in public, but she tries them on in the privacy of her tower and cries - weeps, really - but isn't sure if her tears are from sadness or relief.


	3. Chapter 3

These little things - these little _nothings_ \- compile and compress until Jane is _sure_ something is wrong with her. She must be sick; ailing with _some_ sort of unknown illness. Yet she can't quite pin it down. The pain isn't consistent, it comes and goes, varies in length and ache, and she's never quite sure what brings it on.

It isn't until the incident in the tavern Jane understands source of her discomfort.

Dragon is taking another one of his two-week naps; he _claims_ it is a quirk of his lizard physiology, but Jane thinks he finds the hummingbird buzzing of his short-life family exhausting - and she cannot fault him for occasionally needing the space.

She and Gunther are sent out to deliver messages - invitations to the queen's yearly ball. It's a task usually reserved for the castle's couriers, but they are short handed so Jane and Gunther volunteer.

The weather is fine, the countryside pastoral, and their interactions with passing travelers an interesting diversion. They bicker and banter, trade insults and jests, and make merry camp out under the stars as they travel.

Gunther makes jealous grumbles because he thinks Black prefers Jane, and Jane consoles him by telling him she _knows_ he's stolen away her Lucy's heart, and that they would make a very fine couple indeed. She giggles the face he pulls and offers - should he decide to make it official - to braid flowers into _both_ of their hairs. This sets him laughing; he knows full well Jane has no skill for braiding, but he says he's more than happy to let her try.

It's the first time in a _long_ time Jane hasn't felt that tightness in her chest or the churning in her stomach, and she's content; untroubled by whatever illness has been skulking at the edges of her awareness.

They are nearly finished with their deliveries and are looping back around the mountains when the summer rains begin. It's not a bother - at least not to Jane herself - she loves the smell, the sound, the turbulent grays of the sky, and how vibrantly _green_ everything is.

Gunther is of a contrary opinion - contrariness is part of his nature - and spends his time scowling and grumbling his objections at the clouds, as if his opinion was enough to chase them away. He despairs over the wet, their slowed travel, the dreariness of the day. He's working himself up to a full grousing when Jane points out the low clouds are the same pretty colors as his eyes and that the weather is a match for his temperament.

If there _ever_ was a natural embodiment of Gunther himself - it would be the pissing and moaning of a summer shower.

It stills his mouth, at least for the time being, and he spends the rest of the afternoon in _relatively_ silent contemplation. He's not completely without complaint - that's not who _he_ is _,_ after all - but he doesn't grumble when Jane dismounts to stretch her back and splash in some puddles or tell her to hurry when she makes pleasant conversation with a fellow traveller and his four adult sons.

Instead he just scowls at her antics - her very own personal raincloud - and Jane feels lighter, _freer,_ than she has in months.

However, by the third night spent sleeping in the rain, Jane is less enamoured of the summer's weather and proposes they find shelter. The novelty of leaky tarpaulin and damp blankets is wearing thin and Jane's muscles are reminding her it has been nearly two weeks since she has slept in a bed.

Gunther looks _pathetically_ relieved at her suggestion - Jane almost feels a guilty for not having thought of it sooner - and they decide to overnight in a nearby town.

* * *

The place is a bustle of activity and is larger than Kippertown; dirty, busy, and well-used to visitors. Gunther has been here with Ivon, but Jane has not, and she can't help but gawk. He chooses an inn that is close to the gates; it's a short step from a tavern that serves what he deems is "passable stew". Jane is grateful for the short walk, here in town the rain makes a mess of the roads and _everything_ seems to wear a coat of mud.

Coming in from the rain, the tavern is warm almost to the point of being steamy. The weather has kept most locals at home and there are a few patrons scattered about the common room enjoying their meat and mead, but it's not even half full.

It's second nature for Jane to immediately and thoroughly scan any new surroundings, to take in the lay of the land, ascertain that the situation is safe. So she is cognizant of the - not one, not two, but _three -_ pretty serving girls whose heads swivel, almost in tandem despite the fact they are in different corners of the room, to fix on her and Gunther with instant and _intense_ interest.

Well, Gunther at least. They give her no more than a precursory glance, noting her mannish clothing and frizzy hair before dismissing her as just another bedraggled customer - certainly no one who needs special attention of any sort.

The next second they are almost _racing_ each other to be the first to reach him.

Jane is not at _all_ certain she approves of Gunther's choice of establishment.

They converge on the two of them at nearly the same time, and Jane's eyes go momentarily wide when she sees one of the girls try to bump another out of the way with an exaggerated swing of her hips.

Then they're all over him, taking his wet cloak, drying his hair with a bar towel, taking him by the hand to lead him over to a table near the hearth. Jane might as well not to exist to them at all.

Gunther does nothing to invite or encourage their untoward attention; in fact he tries with some asperity to escape the towel in particular - lord _knows_ what that has been used to clean - but they seem impervious to his lack of interest. If anything, his inattention only seems to spur them on to greater efforts.

They push him into a chair, flapping about him like so many desperate vultures, and he actually has to wave them off to stand again to collect Jane's cloak and hang it by the fire. He pulls out her chair and - with that secret smirk of his - offers to tackle the mess of her hair with the bar towel.

It sets her to rights, this little jab at the outlandish, predacious, behavior of the serving girls, but the feeling doesn't last and it isn't long before that anxiety starts creeping in again.

They both receive a tankard of ale and their meals are delivered with astounding expediency, but that is where Jane's compliments of the service end.

The serving girls take _every_ opportunity to check on them - well _Gunther_ , to be precise - and seem to have a never-ending cache of little seductions in their respective repertoires. They run their palms over his shoulders and tangle their fingers in his hair. They place their hands on his arm or lean over to address him; a shameless but nevertheless effective means to present their cleavage as though it too, is on the menu. All three _accidentally_ drop something and bend over at the waist to retrieve it, and one woman - she'd be pretty if her face wasn't twisted in an exaggerated pout - presses her breasts against Gunther's back when she refills his ale.

If the food is in fact good - as Gunther had promised - Jane will just have to take his word for it; to her everything tastes like sawdust. In fact, she gives up on eating after only a few bites and nurses her drink instead.

She distracts herself by staring into the fire, the heat feels good and the flames are hypnotizing, and Gunther asks if she is ailing. Jane reassures him she is _fine_ and he has nothing to worry about, though she _is_ tired and will probably make it an early night.

He gives her a look, searching for the source of her poorly-hidden malaise, but lets her be and goes back to eating his soup and drinking his ale and remaining oblivious to the women that all but sit in his lap.

Oh wait, no. There goes the brunette, right into his lap.

Jane chews her lip and looks away.

She's not the most self-aware of people, she can be stubborn, callous, and prideful at the most inopportune of times, but she _is_ self-aware enough to understand she is _not_ fine. Far from it in fact. She's overwarm and on edge, but despite her fidgeting nervousness her senses feel dulled and sluggish, and that _feeling_ \- the tightness, the twisting, the _burning_ \- is back in force. Jane wants nothing more than to be away from this place, anywhere would suffice, but she longs for the solitude of their leaky little camp.

* * *

They're there for an hour, Jane is still nursing her first ale, when Gunther excuses himself to the privy. Before he leaves he asks again if she is alright, and she assures him she is; even if she knew _what_ was bothering her, she's unlikely to share it with him, anyway - especially not in a venue such as this.

The girls see his movement and zero in; a wake of vultures fighting over fresh meat - squawking, cawing, pecking at one another. He assures them - flashing that captivating smile of his - that he is _not_ in need of any further service before turning to leave. Gunther hardly makes it a step before he yelps and gives a little half-jump, then _scurries off._

Pouty girl grins triumphantly at the others; it takes Jane a full minute to realize she'd given Gunther a pinch, probably where he least expected it.

The door is still swinging shut when the serving girls descend on her table. She's actually taken aback for a moment - it's the first time they've acknowledged her existence, let alone addressed her directly - and Jane wonders just what kind of establishment Sir Ivon frequents when out on patrol.

With his students, no less.

The brunette slides into Gunther's vacated seat and leans forward; it's not the same invitation she'd presented Gunther - he had been in real danger of suffocation, she'd been so close - it's an intimidation, an unspoken threat.

"Is he yours then?" She asks, cocking her head to study Jane with one large, emotionless eye.

"Wh- what?" Under the table, Jane worries the edge of her tunic.

It's not as if Jane hadn't heard her, the brunette is practically on top of her with anticipation, after all. But her mind is still moving sluggishly, dragging along behind the _thumpthump_ of her heart and her mouth answers before she's even thought about it at all.

"The bloke - you and him a thing?" There's a fine sheen of sweat on her brow and upper lip, and Jane is reminded just how warm and stifling the tavern is.

Jane gives her head a sharp shake, "No. We are not together," because it is _true._

They are _not_ together, not in the sense that these women mean, and it is something Jane has never actually considered before this moment. She and Gunther are not a couple, never have been, and are likely never will become one. It isn't something Jane needs or even wants - at least, she doesn't _think_ so.

 _Does she?_

Gunther has certainly never made any overtures which could be considered _remotely_ romantic - they've only ever had a constant sense of camaraderie, and sometimes-friendship, and holy _hell_ she feels sick again - needs to lay down or press a damp cloth to her brow - or maybe just _escape_ from the scrutiny of the women before her -

The woman sees right through her jumbled emotions; the black of her pupil narrows as she pinpoints the source of Jane's distress. "But you _want_ to be."

It's so surprising, Jane almost laughs. Because of course she doesn't -

That feeling _churns_ , roils fresh; disrupting the familiar pattern of her thoughts.

She _doesn't -_

Does she? _Does she?_

Holy sarding shite, she _does._

Realization doesn't so much slam into her as pour over her in a viscous, soupy wash.

It's a quagmire of unease, anxiety, worry, and discomfort which floods in all at once - but _this_ time the familiar emotions are followed by the newly-identified feelings of envy, insecurity, and _unwarranted_ possessiveness. They surge through her in a slow, nightmarish wave; her stomach churns and her hands tingle, and the sounds of the tavern are drowned out by the sharp intake of her too-short breaths.

Suddenly her illness - the thing which has plagued her for _months_ now, makes sense.

She is _jealous._

Jealous. _JEALOUS._

Jane Turnkey is _jealous_ of how other women _throw_ themselves at - oh bloody hell, this is hard to admit - _Gunther Breech._

Why should she be _jealous_ , as she has so newly realized? Why should she care?

Because she _does_ care.

She cares _far more_ than she would like to admit.

It's too much to think about, but she can't run away or deny - the waves have solidified into so much quicksand - but she can't - _can't_ \- process this now, here. Not with these vultures looking at her like a small morsel of prey that isn't quite dead enough.

Jane plucks at the shirt of her uniform. An unnecessary deflection. "We're partners, from the castle."

The woman narrows her eyes and sucks her teeth, but says nothing in response. It's clear the three don't believe her, but they don't really care, either.

The woman snorts in disbelief and collects Jane's neglected, congealing stew. As one they turn away - they've already forgotten she's here - and make their way back to the rough partition which serves as the bar, arguing over who gets to top him first.

Left alone with her feelings, with her jealousy, it is too much.

Too much.

* * *

She's moving on instinct, not thinking at all, and is up and out the tavern doors into the rain. She's neglected to collect her cloak but the rain is cool against her overwarm skin and she doesn't _care_ \- she just needs to _go._

She isn't running away. She isn't.

It's a strategic retreat, a perfectly acceptable battle tactic. Sir Theodore would approve - _no he would not, of_ course _he would not -_ Jane's sure of it. After all, her armor is gone, her defenses are down; she's completely exposed and she's been compromised.

So, _so_ compromised.

Jane makes her way across the muddied street and into the stables of their inn. It's dark in here, but the stable boy has left a small lantern burning and it's just enough light for Jane to see the contents of her stomach splatter into the hay of the first stall.

She _hates_ to vomit; she'd rather be nauseous than experience the complete lack control, the irregular ictus of the cramps, the wetness which flows from her eyes and nose.

Tears force their way out of the corners of her eyes with each convulsion. It probably wouldn't be so bad - the spasms wouldn't be so painful, at least - if Jane could let herself retch until her body is done.

But she can't, she won't.

She fights desperately against each pull until her sides and middle feel like they are being pierced by daggers; a punishment for some unknown sin.

The heaving goes on forever, or at least, it seems like it does.

When it finishes, Jane leans against the post, bent over and panting. She wonders how long she's been gone and if Gunther has returned. Wonders, in a detached and slow-minded sort of way, if now that she is spent, if she can return to their table for what is left of the evening. Logic tells her the episode couldn't have lasted terribly long - there hadn't been much in her stomach to begin with - and despite her perception otherwise, she'd probably been gone a few minutes, at most.

When the last of the nausea recedes Jane wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her sodden shirt. She straightens, less steady than she would like but steady enough, to meet the baleful, judgemental eye of Black. It's _his_ stall she's messed in, and he snorts his displeasure with a great gust of air. His breath blows the sodden ringlets back from her face, a not-so-subtle rebuke, and she is just about to tell him what she _really_ thinks of his pretty-boy, haughty, spoiled ways -

\- when Gunther comes tearing into the stables, slamming the door open with a loud _BANG!_ that startles the horses. He has both of their cloaks draped over his arm and his hair is dripping into the collar of his shirt.

Jane opens her mouth to scold him; he _should_ have put his own cloak on before coming to seek her out. He _hates_ the rain, despises the wet, and now they'll both be damp and miserable and her _completely_ unable to deal with his whining - when he _demands_ to know what is wrong.

Jane's lips press together in annoyance - she's too wrung out to generate anything close to real anger - but it bothers her to think he has a right to know, to _demand_ some sort of answer. Especially when she _herself_ cannot put words to her feelings.

Hasn't been able to for _months._

Hell, she hadn't even fully finished falling apart when he came crashing in.

So she avoids his question, dodges it like she would one of his sloppy attacks, and distracts him with an answer to avoid voicing the _reason_. The truth is too much, too raw, so she tells him that she's had too much to drink and gestures to the vomit in the hay as flimsy proof.

He scowls and she can see him trying to remember, trying to count the times the maids had refilled her cup; but he'd been distracted - nay, _assaulted_ , if she's being fair - by pretty faces and ample bosoms. No doubt the state of her cup had gone unnoticed under the continual onslaught of so much soft flesh.

Whether or not he believes her, Jane cannot say, but he seems to reach some sort of conclusion, at any rate. He hands her his handkerchief and bids her to sit by the door while he hunts for a shovel in the darkened building. Jane uses rainwater to wash the tears from her face and Gunther scrapes up of the mess she's made in Black's stall.

The horse makes a sound which can only be described as disgust, stamps his hooves in distaste, but Gunther voices no complaint. He replaces the shovel, settles her cloak about her shoulders, then leads her back to their rooms where Jane falls into a deep, troubled sleep.

If he notices her red-rimmed eyes or obvious lack of hangover the next morning, he is smart enough not to comment.


	4. Chapter 4

The last time it happens, she thinks she is prepared for it, but she is not.

Jane spends the week running herself ragged in preparations for the queen's ball. She takes too much on, wears herself out, nearly runs herself into the ground with exhaustion, yet offers her help again and again and again.

There are plenty of chores to be done: the stables need mucking, the silver polishing, the tapestries airing, the rushes changing. Anything to distract herself from the realization that has turned her entire worldview on its ear.

She ignores the niggling, teasing voice in the back of her mind which calls her _afraid_ and _coward_ and pushes herself to do _more_ and _more_ with _less_ and _less_ enthusiasm or energy.

It helps that Gunther is busy as well; their regular duties are suspended for the time being and he has his own tasks to perform. Jane rarely sees him for longer than a minute or two, and she cannot decide if it is a relief or a torment; despite her need for space, she misses their interactions. Misses _him_.

When their paths do cross, he tries to catch her attention with a snide remark or a poorly-constructed insult, but she finds she has no venom to respond. Jane smiles politely at his little jokes and jibes, and avoids meeting his eyes. It must confuse him, her sudden change in behavior, but she has neither the time nor the energy to deal with her feelings just now.

That is, after all, the _point_ of working herself into distracted exhaustion.

* * *

The event arrives far too quickly for her liking - though quickly-arrived means quickly-over, and maybe - just _maybe_ \- once all the guests have departed Jane can wrangle her days back into some semblance of comfortable normalcy.

Even if said normalcy includes a constant, aching background noise of longing for something she can never have.

The guests appear, one carriage than another, as Jane watches from her tower. They flitter and flutter, delicate and spry, twittering happy songs like so many colorful birds.

Jane feels herself a different species altogether, and entirely unequal to their company.

Her nails are bitten and she's wrung wrinkles into the fabric of her skirt, but she's run out of excuses to dawdle so she leaves the safety of her domain for the crush of people below.

The ball is a rousing success - the queen will surely be pleased - it's wall to wall elbows and knees.

Despite her loitering Jane is early and the musicians have yet to sound the first chord. She makes her way to her mother, presenting herself for inspection, before she wings and wheels her way through the throng to stand by herself. She avoids the shadows and corners - nothing draws her mother's owlish attention faster than the suspicion of Jane avoiding her duty - and uses the brief reprieve time to cast her gaze about.

Jane's not looking for anyone in specific - she's _NOT -_ but her keen eye finds him nevertheless.

 _She_ may be the one with the title, but _he's_ the one that fits in here. Tall and trimmed, sleek and subtle. Jane thinks him strange in his finery, unapproachable despite their long association, and she's glad - her relief almost tangible - that she's sequestered herself on the far end of the dance floor.

Her anxiety does not prevent her from watching him, however. He hardly makes it into the room before he's all but besieged by admirers. They converge from every direction, a murmuration of taffeta, satin, ribbon, and curls. When the music begins he's tugged out to the dance floor in an unending stream of vibrantly plumed partners.

Of course, Jane receives plenty of invitations to dance herself.

She's obligated to accept them all, though she finds the activity about as appealing as mucking out the stables. But she knows her place and knows her duty; Jane is well aware her exploits have afforded her some modest renown - and a bit of infamy, as well. She is the queen's own special attraction, a novelty for the noble set, and no matter _what_ she may plan for her future, there will always be this minor inconvenience of uncomfortable, unwanted display.

A rare formal evening to remind her she is more mudhen then peacock.

She has no choice, there is no option, and she cannot _decline_ a titled partner. Each invitation is less of a request and more of an order, and Jane does her best to accept them with authentic good grace.

 _Bloody hell,_ there are so many invitations.

And they _talk._

And talk.

And talk.

Her current partner is uncannily skilled - a veritable master of multitasking - he chatters and trills between each bow and twirl. Jane isn't sure which she finds more annoying; the garish display of his fawning or the occasional pinch from his wandering hands.

He reels her around, singing her praises. Jane wonders if her adventures would seem half so glamorous if the tales included her singed eyebrows or menstrual cramps, but she bites her tongue and says nothing when his jeweled fingers stray possessively to her hip.

 _Anywhere_ else, Jane would bend them for such liberties, but here she is on display and will not fail in her obligations.

The song ends and he is replaced by another. Then another. Then another.

It's more of the same.

Jane tries to pay attention - focuses hard on their boasts and crows - but they are too alike, too interchangeable. So instead, she smiles sweetly and steps on their feet - apologizing with learned grace - and laments the lack of of her boots.

Though it doesn't take long for her feet to protest the abuse.

Jane begins her nineteenth - _twentieth?_ \- turn about the room when she catches a glimpse of Gunther through the crowd. He's dancing with another cooing dove - she hasn't been watching, she _hasn't -_ and he gives the girl that _smile_ , the one he never gives Jane herself, and the girl practically _melts_ as he leads her off the floor.

The annoyance, the anger, the - _it's still hard to acknowledge -_ jealousy flares anew.

And it's stupid. Dear God, it is stupid because she knows _that smile - that one_ \- is just part of his mask. His armor. His _gilding._

Gunther's _real_ smile is a smirk, or a crooked grin, or even a look of delighted surprise when one of her insults is clever and catches him off guard. But the _knowing_ doesn't change the _feeling_.

Fake or no, _that smile_ catches the attention of the women around him and they _flock_ to him; and it makes her jealous - jaw-clenchingly, heart-breakingly, gut-wrenchingly _jealous_ \- because he isn't trying to catch _her_ attention.

And it hurts.

The song ends with a grandiose, triumphant flourish. The note hasn't even finished reverberating before another man grabs her arm, begging for a dance. Her nerves are frazzled and she knows she'll make a fool of herself if she tries to converse with anyone else, but she can't think of a good excuse to say no when -

\- a familiar hand captures her own. It is rough, calloused, and he's been chewing at his cuticles but it is also strong, reassuring, and makes her insides feel both shaky and warm.

"Pardon me, sir," Gunther flashes the man _that smile_ , "But I do believe Lady Turnkey owes me a dance."

The young noble doesn't answer - Gunther towers over them both and he has no option _but_ to agree - so he just releases her arm and _flees_.

Jane watches his exit with feigned interest; she's glad enough to see him go, but Gunther is so close she's not sure she can handle being in such… _intimate_ proximity - even in such a public setting.

He notices her frown and asks what she is thinking.

"I am afraid, Gunther," she says smoothly, "the queen will not appreciate you frightening away my dance partners."

He chuckles, a smirk twisting his lips, "I did no such thing." He grips her elbow and leads her her to an open space on the floor. "Though if anything has frightened off your dance partners, it is your abysmal footwork - how many have you injured in the last hour alone?"

She'd stepped on them on purpose, a means to discourage her suitors from requesting a second dance, but _damn_ him for noticing such a small thing from across the room - and then using it to _tease_ her.

Jane affords him her most scathing look. "I think perhaps your observational skills are lacking, though if someone _were_ keeping tally, I imagine the number is about to increase by one."

She doesn't though - doesn't tromp his toes or mangle his instep. Instead she lets him take her hand in his, pull her around and through, spin her in circles as though her stomach isn't twisted or his closeness isn't making her dizzy. The crush of people, for which she'd been so grateful before, now works against her. The ebb and flow forces the steps of their carole smaller, pushes them closer together. The room is overwarm, stifling.

He notices her discomfort and without remark, begins the arduous process of leading them off the dance floor. He shoulders his way through the mob, one guiding hand on her hip. The reach the gardens, and there are still people everywhere - their dresses glitter in the torchlight - but there is open sky and room to breathe.

She takes a great gulp of air, holds it, then lets out a sigh of relief.

"Really, Jane, I could almost think you were not happy to dance with me. And after I turned down so many lovely offers just to be with you."

"Did you?" she quips, feeling only marginally better. He is after all, still leading her around the garden. "Perhaps I should be afraid for my safety? Am I in danger from the horde of beautiful women that have been vying for your attention all evening?" She means it as a joke, or at least to _sound_ like one, but it comes out a little more spiteful, a little more _bitter_ than she intends.

Gunther arches an eyebrow, surprised at her tone.

"Jane, are you jealous?" he asks with a habitual smirk, hoping to goad a reaction from her.

It is a familiar enough turn to their conversation, an insult here, a dig there, but this time it catches her completely off guard. His question stuns her, the accuracy of his aim, and she misses a step. Her clumsy feet send her careening forward - arms pinwheeling - and if Gunther had not already had a firm hand on her waist, she'd certainly have gone sprawling.

He rights her with casual ease and laughs to see her face.

She's gone a deep, dark crimson - a color surely not found in nature - from the roots of her now-mussed hair to the back of her hands. The pit of her stomach _aches_ with embarrassment and Jane is certain she looks very much like she has swallowed a frog.

"Hardly," she manages, once she is again able to speak. It's defensive, _oh lord_ , it's defensive even to _her_ ears, but the words tumble out before she she can stop them. "The day I am jealous of the women who _throw_ themselves at your feet, Gunther Breech, is the day I let you kiss me."

It shocks him - her pronouncement - and his expression shifts from amusement, to a scowl, to confusion, to something she isn't quite able to define.

The look on his face makes her angry, furious even. What right does he have to look confused or hurt or whatever this is? Has he _really_ not noticed the effect he has? Is he _truly_ unaware to the countless smiles, the gifts, the flirting, the little touches, and the meaning behind them?

Is he unaware of _his_ effect on _her?_

Is it _possible_ for someone to be so completely, so thoroughly, so _utterly_ oblivious to the affections of another's heart?

Gunther Breech may be many things, but _dense_ is not one of them.

"What?" she demands, already tired of his stupid expression.

"I cannot decide if that is a challenge or a trap."

"It is _neither_ , you du- "

He leans over, puts his hand on her cheek, and stops her mouth with his own. Everything goes oddly quiet, the sound drains out of the world and is replaced by the _roaring_ rush of the blood in her veins. His lips are warm, sweet, move gently against her own, and he pulls away before she can kiss him back.

"Because," his voice is rough; he seems as surprised by his actions as she is. "I would really just prefer to kiss you."

Jane is astounded, struck dumb and mute. Her mind is whirling, a vortex of incredulity and tangled emotions. She's caught between lighting into him for his arrogance - and returning his kiss. She almost expects him to tease her, make some small insult or joke that he's finally found a way to shut her up - but the longer she stares at him open-mouthed and gaping, the more uncomfortable, the more _anxious_ he becomes.

Gunther shifts in place, clears his throat, and starts to back away.

There is uncertainty behind his eyes. A self-conscious, _unusual_ lack of surety which is completely at odds with his normal proud and self-contained expression.

Is he _insecure?_

She can barely credit it, but he _is._

In a flash of lightning-quick comprehension, Jane remembers the shared jokes and smiles, the simple gifts, his concern for her well being, making camp in the rain, his rescue on the dance floor, - _hell_ , _he'd even cleaned up her vomit_ -

\- remembers her own musings on obliviousness -

\- and sees, with _astounding_ clarity, that maybe - no, _not_ maybe - Gunther _has_ been feeling the same secret adoration that she has.

For _her._

She doesn't _make_ the decision, doesn't _think_ before she acts, just steps forward to grasp at the edges of his tunic, pulls him down, and kisses him back.


	5. Chapter 5

They're in the library, studying for _another_ of Sir Theodore's tests - _aren't they too old for this?_ Surely _they are too old for this_ \- when a stray thought distracts Jane from her book.

"Gunther, what did Aditi say to you before she left?"

He's completely engrossed in his history text, not listening to her at all, and it takes him a moment to look up. "I am sorry, Jane - what did you ask?"

"Before Aditi left with her father, we exchanged gifts. She gave you the backgammon board and whispered in your ear. What did she say to you?"

He thinks for a moment, digging around in the far corners of his memory, then his eyes go wide. He glances away, unable to meet her eyes, and flushes _so_ hard his ears turn pink.

Jane cannot help but think he looks _very_ much like a rabbit caught in a snare. Ears and all.

"Oh, I- uh-" he clears his throat and runs a nervous hand through his hair. "I cannot tell you, Jane. I do not think it's appropriate - "

Interest piqued, Jane leans forward. _Why the reticence?_ It was unlike him.

Well, now she _had_ to know.

"Come now, Gunther, you do not think I will get _jealous,_ do you?"

"No, it is not that. It is just -" He shifts uncomfortably - closes his book and sets it aside - almost as if he was in real danger of bolting.

Jane cocks her head and her eyes narrow - a hawk who has sighted her prey. "Well then, spit it out."

Gunther hesitates for a moment, trying to decide if he should confess, or if it is better - _safer_ \- to leave her annoyed. "She said," his throat bobs as he swallows, "she said, 'now you and Jane will not have to get out of bed to spar.'"

Jane blinks slowly, trying to make sense of his words.

 _...now you will not…_

Understanding clicks in place, and Jane feels a blush of her own coloring her cheeks. Of all the things her gentle - _and apparently astute_ \- friend might have whispered to Gunther, that was _not_ one she might have suspected.

" _Well_ , then," she replies, looking down at her book and struggling - then failing miserably - to suppress smile that tugs on the corners of her mouth, "You had better teach me to play."

* * *

 _A/N: Jane, making herself sick for nothin'. Drop me a review, they make my day!_


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